


Mislaid Memories

by LokiOfSassgaard



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:36:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6309103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/LokiOfSassgaard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and his companion investigate a very evil and dastardly being who calls himself Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Pink

“Not bored now, are you?”

A promise made to him a very long time ago echoed through his mind. A very simple promise that had time and time again been kept without fail. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d been hoping to experience when he’d first signed up with the strange man with his strange ways of thinking.

Well, hadn’t so much signed up, as he’d agreed to go along with him in exchange for room and board, as well as semi-regular meals, which had been much better than what he’d had on his own.

Not bored. He was, in fact, very startled when the cabbie lurched forward milliseconds after the sound of gunfire rang in the very near distance.

The plan had gone wrong.

As soon as Sherlock saw the perfectly-placed bullet hole and the open window from the other building, he knew that he’d been followed. But of course John had found him. Sherlock would have been an idiot to have assumed John woul d have done anything but.

The plan had been for John to lay down a good cover, and a good cover does not involve being noticed for shooting a man from the next building over.

Damage control later. There was still a bleeding murderer lying on the floor who wouldn’t be alive for much longer, and Sherlock needed information from him. For a moment, he let himself get distracted with the business of the pill, but that wasn’t the information he needed. He needed to know who had actually been behind the killings. The cabbie’s so-called sponsor. He hadn’t expected the man to talk, but he needed to know, and was willing to try almost anything.

Stepping on the man, as it happened, turned out to be the best way to go about learning what deep down, he’d already known.

In what would not be remembered as even a podium finish for the greatest last words, the cabbie screamed a single name, and one that made Sherlock reel backwards.

Moriarty.

He’d been expecting this for some time, but he hadn’t thought it would be quite like this.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn’t known what to expect. This was not the time to be confused over broken expectations, though. Finally, the reason he was running around London in the first place had surfaced for the first time after five very long years of waiting.

Five very long, though very exciting and strange years.

 

“I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket.”

Sherlock tried to stare down the detective, but it hadn’t quite worked, as evidenced in that the man kept trying to argue with him.

Sherlock couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Of course John was acclimatised to violence. He’d told Sherlock that this hadn’t been the first time he had to do this strange and terrible thing, and had apparently learned a few things from the last time.

Maybe Sherlock was in shock, because he couldn’ t think of any other reason why he’d have let all that information slip to Lestrade.

His argument seemed convincing enough, because although reluctantly, Lestrade did let him leave. Not wanting to take any more chances and let this whole fragile operation fall to pieces, Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to get away as quickly as possible.

Sherlock could see that there was still something there. Something in John that had fought back and not been repressed like it should have been. He hadn’t even flinched when Sherlock all but stated plainly that he knew John had been the shooter. Even though guns weren’t his usual way of handling things, the man did know how to use them and had killed before. He’d put on a brave face about it, but Sherlock knew that it would bother him later, although he’d never show it. That’s just how he was, and always had been.

“You weren’t going to take that damn pill, were you?” John asked, sounding somewhere betwe en angry and disappointed, but hiding it well. Not well enough, though; not when it was a tone Sherlock had been made very familiar with already.

Sherlock turned to face him. “Of course I wasn’t,” he assured. “Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

John couldn’t figure out why Sherlock would say such a ridiculous thing. They hardly knew anything about one another, let alone what the other was likely to do in the event that one of them was kidnapped by a homicidal cab driver.

“No you didn’t,” he said. “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

Sherlock very nearly laughed. He had, after all, picked up this rather odd hobby from the man throwing the accusations. But, no. Laughing would not help him. Not now. It would only make things worse.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” John said it simply, as though he’d said it a thousand times before, an d always with good reason.

Sherlock didn’t manage to hold it back this time and a wide smile spread across his face, just for a moment. Everything was different now, and yet, so much was still the same.

“Dinner?” he suggested, hoping to get off of familiar tracks.

John, thankfully, took the bait.

“Starving,” he said with a small nod and more irony that Sherlock could handle.

Sherlock ignored this by going on about Chinese restaurants and door handles, which had been something else that had been relayed to him a very long time ago. He was interrupted, however, by John suddenly seeming very nervous and nodding toward a man stepping out of a car.

“That’s him,” he said, after getting Sherlock’s attention. “The man I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock saw the man, and knew exactly what his presence at the scene represented. His very being there confirmed everything Sherlock had learned from the dead cabbie, which me ant that they were getting close and things were starting to get dangerous.

Sherlock and his apparent arch enemy spoke in clipped words and carefully-constructed code. They had built up an entire fabricated relationship over the last five years, and it had been one which they had both all too easily fallen into.

That first week with Torchwood probably had as much to do with it as anything.

As they exchanged information, Sherlock would occasionally cast quick glances to John, trying to gauge how much of the conversation he was following. Very little, if the absolutely bewildered expression on his face was anything to go by. Good.

While it was fun to watch John struggle to keep up, Sherlock was rather hungry and very bored of Mycroft and his spying. Sherlock knew he was getting the job done, and he didn’t need to be babysat. They’d get the job done without Mycroft.

He left, and John soon followed after, again eager to jump into pointless chatt er about fortune cookies. Sherlock had not been expecting this conversation to turn into John asking him what he was so happy about.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered simply. It was risky, but he had to try it. He had to see if John remembered.

“What’s Moriarty?” John asked.

“Absolutely no idea.”

It was a complete and total lie, and one he rather hoped John wouldn’t be able to see right through. But it was far too early yet to be truthful about the matter. Telling John would only jeopardise the entire mission. Best to keep him in the dark for now.

Just a little while longer, and things should hopefully begin to fall into place to be easily picked up and fitted together.


	2. The Blind Banker

Sherlock had been absolutely awestruck by Torchwood. It was unlike anything he had ever even imagined, and even after that strange box that was bigger on the inside, none of it seemed possible.

The odd little man who called himself only the Doctor, and who knew sciences and beings from other worlds talked quietly to an old friend while Sherlock was left to wander nearby, so long as he kept his hands in his pockets. The Doctor’s friend was also from another world, or so he claimed, and from far in the future, which Sherlock didn’t want to believe, except for the mountains of evidence to support both of these claims surrounding him at that very moment.

“This is what he wants to do,” the Doctor said, his arms folded casually over his chest. “I tried talking him out of it, and even tried taking him back home, but he’s very stubborn.”

This friend of the Doctor’s – a man who called himself Captain Jack Hark ness, although Sherlock was positive that he was neither a captain, nor actually called Jack anything – watched Sherlock closely.

“And you want us to train him for you?” he asked.

“Not as such, no,” Sherlock stepped in. “I merely need to be instructed on ways of blending in.”

The Doctor laughed lightly. “Yeah, Sherlock,” he said. “Don’t press your luck, there.”

Sherlock gave both of them a scathing look before removing his hands from his pockets and picking up a small device with a digital screen and a series of buttons laid out in a vaguely square-ish arrangement. He recognised the button arrangement from something the Doctor had in that mad box of his. He had used the device to communicate with someone who wasn’t in the room, although the Doctor’s was rather larger and lacked the screen (though, there were other screens in the mad box that seemed to serve various functions). It wasn’t a very large leap to deduce that this smaller object had a similar application.

“How does this work?” he asked, holding it up for the Doctor and Jack to see.

The Doctor stood quietly with an odd grin on his face, gesturing for Jack to explain.

“That,” Jack said, carefully reaching for it, as though Sherlock were likely to suddenly drop it, “is a device called a mobile phone. It lets you talk—”

“I didn’t ask what it does, I asked how it works,” Sherlock said, speaking with a deliberate slowness, as though to make sure that Jack heard every syllable. “You can converse with someone over a very great distance, yes. I know. Spare me the dull parts, please.”

The Doctor tried not to laugh as Jack gave him a confused look.

“You sure he’s human?” Jack asked.

“Yep,” said the Doctor, nodding. “Told you he’s good, didn’t I?”

Jack’s face settled into the sort of knowing expression one wears when they realise they’ve just b een the recipient of a practical joke.

“You didn’t just pick him up a few days ago, did you?” he asked flatly.

Grinning widely, the Doctor shook his head. “No. I’ve had him a bit longer than that.”

 

A book that everybody would own. How was he supposed to know what everybody would own? He knew just enough about this culture to only slightly stand out, and even getting this far had taken him half a decade to accomplish. Books and films and music were not things he cared about, and although films had at one point fascinated him, the attraction hadn’t lasted long, and he quickly wrote them of as the same sort of bland and transparent storytelling he’d been familiar with from his boyhood.

Frustrated and wishing that just this once he could have that extra help, someone else even more clever than he was to say ‘I told you so’ and pick the right book at random, Sherlock stared at his bookcase.

Maybe that was the trick. Don� �t think about it, and just grab books. That’s how John had always done this sort of thing, and it worked quite wonderfully for him. It wasn’t until after he’d grabbed them that he realised he might be onto something. The OED seemed promising at first, and he flipped through the pages eagerly. But, no. A threatening message – and he was certain that whatever the message was, it had been meant to be threatening – wouldn’t start with such a boring and plain word like ‘add.’

The second book in the stack, even Sherlock had to realise, had not been a very likely candidate, but he flipped through the pages regardless. Absolutely not. Nothing, save maybe some bizarre word substitute, would start with ‘nostrils.’ Sherlock was beginning to lose hope in his ability to figure this thing out as he flipped through the Bible. This wasn’t working, and Sherlock slammed the cover shut before throwing the book down. He was just about to start taking his frustration s out on the flat when he noticed John strolling in leisurely, no doubt about to say something irrelevant. Sherlock tried to stop him by declaring that they were going out, but John surprised him by saying he’d already made plans.

Specifically, that he had a date.

“What?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

This had been one of the things he was supposed to keep from happening. It had all been there in the instructions that John was not permitted to get close to anybody while they were in London. It only wound up getting people hurt.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” John explained simply.

Sherlock had no idea how to stop this, but he knew it couldn’t happen. “That’s what I was suggesting,” he tried.

“No, it wasn’t,” John declared simply, having none of this. “At least, I hope not.”

This was not working. Short of blowing the whole thing, Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. And of course, John was planning on taking her to cinema. Dull, boring, predictable. And Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Sabotage. It was the only solution. John had to take this girl somewhere Sherlock would be able to watch them, and wouldn’t be completely out of character to do so. He handed a small torn bit of paper to John, and insisted that he forego the cinema in favour of something a bit more exotic.

More importantly, somewhere Sherlock could claim to be for the sake of the case.

It hadn’t worked, of course, and Sherlock soon stopped caring about that entire detail. John could talk his own way out of this mess when the time came, and hopefully talk his way out of the resulting mess that was sure to follow.

 

In the end, it had all worked. Sort of. They only managed to get a few of the henchmen, but they found the pin and even solved the murders. And John was still, apparently, determined to keep seeing Sarah. But hearing John, with an awestruck tone of amazement on the edge of his voice point out that Sherlock had cracked the code was a magnificent thing, and Sherlock couldn’t help feeling a little smug.

Sherlock did remind him, though, that the ringleader had gotten away and even with the code cracked, the organisation was nowhere near being brought down. It had been a reminder to himself as much as it had been to John, though. He knew, somehow, that the ringleader was the one they wanted, and they’d needed her alive. And that same thing that told him that the ringleader was the one that they needed had also told him that someone, somewhere, would very soon be finding her in a body bag. He didn’t know how he knew these things, but he just did.

Maybe John had rubbed off on him a bit, after all. And now that John wasn’t the one off gallivanting about being clever and making everyone around him look stupid by comparison, it was Sherlock’s turn. He’d gotten quite good at it in Joh n’s absence, it did have to be said.

Looking at John as he stared out the window with some distant thought on his mind, Sherlock couldn’t help by realise that part of him wanted to keep John this way.


	3. The Great Game

“What are you?”

Sherlock stared at the man with cautious astonishment. The man, in turn, stared at Sherlock with abject incredulity.

“Flying thing that shoots lasers, and you want to know what I am?” he asked.

They were stood in a small house, just under a flight of stairs, where they had tried (rather unsuccessfully) to hide from their attacker. Sherlock looked at the flying thing that shot lasers, which was now no longer flying nor shooting lasers, but instead lying in several sparking pieces on the floor.

“Whatever it was, it’s now an ex-thing,” Sherlock reasoned. “You are very much alive, and therefore more immediate, so I ask you again, what are you? Because you, like that ex-thing on the floor there, are certainly not of this world.”

Sherlock could see that this man was impressed, even before the mad grin spread across his face.

“I’m the Doctor,” he said simply.

“The Doctor?” asked Sherlock, managing to sound not even vaguely impressed. The man didn’t look like any sort of doctor he’d ever seen. “Doctor of what, exactly?”

This seemed to take the man by surprise, which seemed rather odd to Sherlock. He’d acted like this flying metal monster was the most ordinary thing in the world, but a simple question caught him off guard.

It wasn’t the question he was expecting. He had another answer already planned, but it wasn’t one that would fit Sherlock’s question.

“You know,” said the Doctor, trying quickly to come up with a suitable answer. “Doctory... things. Listen, that thing there—”

“Is an ex-thing,” Sherlock said, again taking the man by surprise. This was not, Sherlock noticed, a man who was used to being interrupted. “And likely not the only one. Something like that wouldn’t come all the way down here from the heavens on its own if it could be defeated so easily. It was clearly designed to cause damage, but designed without defences, which makes it rather ineffective as a singular unit. Defence didn’t factor in, because it relies on others like it to keep it safe.”

The Doctor regarded him for a long, silent moment, trying to figure out this lanky and fairly ragged man. Sherlock let him, making a point to look very bored.

“You’re human,” said the Doctor, as though this was something that didn’t make sense.

“Of course I’m human,” Sherlock shot back. It didn’t occur to him that even though this Doctor person looked human, he might not be.

“But... You’re all wrong.” The Doctor stepped closer to Sherlock, seeming to actually examine him. “Sorry, that sounded bad. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“I’m not wrong. I’m different,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed eagerly. “Very different. And absolutely wasted picking pockets and pretending to read palm s. Why would you do that?”

“Because it puts bread on the table,” Sherlock said, managing to sound even more bored than previously.

The Doctor frowned. While he didn’t seem surprised by this, he was clearly disappointed. “But you’re a proper genius,” he said after a moment. “Or you could be, if you applied yourself to more than just stealing from people.”

Sherlock didn’t grant him the satisfaction of an answer. He wasn’t sorry for anything he’d done, and wouldn’t pretend to be just to impress this man.

“What’s your name?” asked the Doctor after a long moment.

Normally, Sherlock would lie, but he there was something very strange about this situation. Something that almost compelled him to be truthful, despite everything he knew about personal safety.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered after a moment.

The Doctor’s face fell. “No,” he said, almost panicked. “No, this is all wrong. Sherlock Holmes? Really? No. You can’t be here, doing this.”

“Can’t I?” Sherlock asked.

“No!” The Doctor was frantic. He pushed the sleeve of his thick, knitted jumper up to his elbow to check several watches on his arm. “What year’s it?”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “1882.”

The Doctor frowned at him. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said as he started to pace around the room. “Terribly, terribly wrong. You can’t be here, doing this, right now in 1882. What are you? Twenty? No! This isn’t right. It’s very wrong.”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

The Doctor stopped moving about, and stared at Sherlock. “You are supposed to be one of the greatest detectives of all time. Instead, you’re crawling around, picking people’s pockets.”

Sherlock laughed dryly. “A detective?” he asked. “Boring.”

The Doctor’s entire deme anour changed almost at once, and he smiled up at Sherlock. “Bound to be more fun than what you’re doing,” he said.

“And you’d know this?”

The Doctor nodded down at the ex-thing on the floor. “This? Child’s play. Just a quick way to fill the time between tea and supper.”

Sherlock looked down at the ex-thing, curious to get in and start taking it apart, but weary that it might still have some bite left in it.

“How does it work?” he asked slowly.

The Doctor smiled. He pulled out that odd green thing of his and knelt down beside the ex-thing, inviting Sherlock to join him.

“I don’t think you’d have much fun if I just told you.”

The Doctor had been right. It was far more interesting to be able to pull the thing apart himself.

 

No. Of all the ways in which this situation could have possibly gone wrong, John stepping into view was the worst. He could be bloody useless as a human at times, but seeing John buried in that anorak living, breathing (likely soon to not be living nor breathing at the rate things were going) proof that the plan had failed catastrophically.

Sherlock hated hearing him talk, voicing words that weren’t his, like some grotesque parody of a ventriloquist dummy.

Only most ventriloquist dummies don’t wear semtex vests.

“I gave you my number. Thought you might call.”

How could he have possibly missed it? He noticed everything else, and completely blew off the phone number. It occurred to Sherlock that this had been the idea from the very beginning, but he tried not to think about it. There was nothing he could do about it now, except try to get out of there before he or John got killed.

So this was Moriarty. The whole reason Sherlock and John had been hiding out in London, both pretending to be something they weren’t. He didn’t look so scary; didn’t look like some powerful being who could alter the fates of entire planets.

Then again, neither did John.

Sherlock kept the sights trained on Moriarty, letting the man monologue. Sherlock did like the clever ones, because they always loved to show off just how clever they were. It wasn’t enough to just say that they’d done it; they had to explain every how and why and insignificant minutiae.

He hadn’t expected John to jump on Moriarty like that. Whether it was John, or just another fragment that hadn’t been properly repressed, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but it was dangerous either way. Stupid, even.

It had to be John.

At least he had the sense to back away when the lasers started pointing from the other direction as well. But of course there wasn’t just one shooter. Moriarty would want to be covered from all angles, and wouldn’t let something like someone grabbing him from behind get in the way of his fun.

Sherlock was surprised when Moriarty left, apparently done with the game. I t was too easy, and Sherlock knew it, but that didn’t stop him from tearing that damn vest off John before it could go. He didn’t care that if the vest did go, it would still obliterate half the damn building and take them both with it, but at least it wasn’t on John.

He wasn’t even watching when John’s leg gave out on him, and he dropped in a controlled fall to the ground. Under different circumstances, Sherlock might have marvelled at how well the camouflage had worked at not only concealing details, but creating new ones. At that moment, though, Sherlock was busy, frantically moving back and forth to make sure that nothing more was going to happen.

Just as they’d begun to exchange nervous witticisms and things seemed safe, the little red dots showed up. Maybe up to a full dozen of them, although the way they kept jigging about made counting rather difficult. Not that Sherlock needed to, because he knew exactly what the little red dots meant. They b oth did.

“Sorry, boys!”

He was back with that horrible put-on voice, monologuing again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder briefly what it must feel like to be a living cliché.

Sherlock looked down at John, and saw it – that small hint that there was still something else inside him – a small, almost invisible nod.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock said, rounding on Moriarty.

For a second, he trained the pistol’s sights on him, and then slowly moved it, down to the semtex vest on the floor. He held a bead on it for just long enough to make everybody in the room nervous, until that terribly smug smile started to spread across Moriarty’s face. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t fire.

He was wrong, of course. Sherlock quickly jerked the gun up again, firing a shot near Moriarty’s head. He knew that shooting the man himself would only end badly, so Sherlock fired past it, at a fuse box on the far wall. It was a risky, stupid shot, but he’d become very good at risky, stupid moves over the years.

With a shower of sparks, the fuse box exploded, throwing the swimming pool into blackness. Sherlock dived at John, pulling him into the nearest cubicle as gunfire rained blindly from all directions.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John hissed. “You had one shot, and you missed!”

“I didn’t miss,” Sherlock hissed back, fumbling in his pockets.

“Well, that’s what it bloody looks like from where I’m sitting!”

John was on the verge of a flashback, and he knew it. He clutched his head tightly in his hands, trying to think of a way out of this that didn’t get both of them killed. When Sherlock grabbed at one of his wrists and pulled, fighting back had happened automatically, and John swung his arm in protest, clipping Sherlock on the jaw with his fist.

Sherlock ignored it for the time being, and shoved something small and metal into John’s ha nd. By now, the gunfire had stopped, and Moriarty was screaming in rage, stomping in their direction.

“Sherlock, what is this?” John hissed quietly.

“It’s your watch,” said Sherlock.

“Why do you have it?”

He’d been warned about this. Some sort of perception filter on it that would make John all but hate the thing.

“Because you need to open it!” Sherlock said, trying to work John’s hands around it.

“But it doesn’t open. It’s broken,” he protested. “And there are more important things happening right now!”

Moriarty was almost on top of them, now. Sherlock finally got John’s hands around the watch, and while he wasn’t sure if it would work, manipulated his fingers to press the large button on top.

“Do it!” he shouted.

The watch opened, and three things happened at once. John lurched as though he had been punched in the stomach as the sound of an asthmatic jet engine sounded from some where above them, which Moriarty began screaming at.

“No!” he shouted at the sound, doubling over with his hands clapped over his ears. “You can’t do this!”

Something crashed through the ceiling and landed with all the grace of a brick on the floor. It was big, blue, and towered over Moriarty.

The door on the front of the TARDIS flung open, revealing a very shaken woman, backlit by the warm orange glow of the centre console.

“Hello, Sweetie,” she called into the dark.

“Wonderful!” John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist as he jumped to his feet, running full speed for the TARDIS.

“Excellent landing, Dear,” he said as he ushered her and Sherlock into the TARDIS, closing the door behind him. “That ought to hold. I think.”

He looked up at the door, badly out of breath, before turning to face Sherlock, who approached him cautiously.

“Is it you?” he asked. “I don’t know how to tell.”

The grin tha t spread across the familiar face was nothing of a dignified war hero, and everything of a mad man with a box, and was all the answer Sherlock needed. He answered the grin with one of his own, pulling the Doctor into a tight hug.

“You haven’t changed a day,” he said, quickly letting go and stepping back.

“And look at you. You’re all grown up. How did that happen?”

He was still grinning, despite the screaming and banging around that was happening outside the TARDIS.

“Five years ago,” Sherlock said.

“Five years?” His grin was quickly replaced by an embarrassed grimace. “Five? It was only supposed to be two.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s grin never faded. “I was rather hoping you might have decided to make it ten.”

Satisfied that everything was all right, the Doctor turned his grin to River. “I told you those lessons would come in handy,” he said smugly.

River shrugged indifferently as she made her wa y over to him. “And I told you, no spoilers.”

She kissed him quickly before making her way back to the centre console, just as one of the monitors flicked itself on.

“Oh, good!” Moriarty’s image chirped happily. “The Doctor and his pets. I knew it was you. Even if you did use that dirty little cheat of yours. Turning yourself human, so I wouldn’t hear your hearts beating? That ought to be against the rules.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Does he ever stop?” he asked tiredly.

Moriarty grinned. “How cute. I always did like your little trained puppy.”

The Doctor and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance, both asking the same silent question. Before either of them could say anything, though, Moriarty went on.

“Oh, and who’s this?” he asked. And then he gasped dramatically. “Oh, is she The Woman? I’ve always wondered what she looked like. Hmm. Not quite what I’d expected. I’m a little disappointed, actually.”

“What?” asked Sherlock.

The Doctor shook his head. “Spoilers, sorry.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get to the point,” he snapped. This monologuing was beginning to grate.

Moriarty laughed at him. “Ooh, I like you this time. You were never this feisty before. It will almost be a shame to kill you.”

The Doctor realised what was going on and considered correcting him, but stopped himself at the last minute. He couldn’t help but be curious about where this was going to go.

“But, you ran and hid, which just isn’t playing fair at all,” Moriarty continued. “So, you’re going to have to pay. Well, not you. Them.” He jerked his head oddly. “What do you think? Shall I decimate them? Decimate’s such a great word, isn’t it? Just say it once.”

“Decimate them?” the Doctor asked.

“This planet has what? Almost seven billion people? They don’t really need that extra ten percent, do they?”

The D octor lunged at the monitor. “Don’t you dare!” he screamed.

Moriarty laughed. “You do like the loyal ones, don’t you?” he asked. “Loyal and broken. How else would you convince them to follow you around so easily?”

Sherlock pulled him away from the monitor, hoping to keep Moriarty confused for as long as possible. It had never been part of the plan, but it just might be able to work in their favour.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Moriarty airily. “You come out of that silly little box of yours, and I’ll spare them.”

This time, River stepped forward. “You expect us to just take your word for it that you’ll do anything?” she asked. “Kria hasn’t got that sort of tech.”

Moriarty grinned. “Who says I came alone?” he asked. “Or, for that matter, that my friends are from Kria? I’m sure you’ll find that they can be very... effective. I believe you’ve dealt with Striterax before, haven’t you?”

“You don’t have to do this,” the Doctor told him. “You don’t want to do this.”

“He’s so cute,” Moriarty said. “I bet you’ll miss him. But he’s right. I don’t want to. Any idiot can decimate a planet. Where’s the fun in that? So, why don’t you come out here so he can finish our little chat? I’ll give you thirty seconds to think it over.”

The monitor switched itself off.


	4. Time and Space

Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it. He just strode toward the door, but before he could open it, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“No,” the Doctor said sternly. “You will not do this.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked.

“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

He and Sherlock locked eyes, both as determined and stubborn as the other, and twice as reckless.

“He’s going to kill you,” Sherlock said, as though this piece of information were brand new.

“Which is exactly why you’re staying here,” the Doctor hissed.

Loyal and broken. Moriarty had managed to get at least that much right. Sherlock had been his companion for twice as long as anyone else in recent history, the five-year gap during their little undercover project notwithstanding, in spite of – because – he had been the least attached to anyone or anything else and had nothing to go back for. He was exactly the sort of companion the Doctor avoided having, and everything in one that he needed. And like everyone else the Doctor seemed to cross paths with, too bloody important to be doing any of this.

“I’m going,” Sherlock said determinedly, reaching for the door.

“You’re not.”

“You still need time,” Sherlock argued. “You just opened that watch. You need to recover.”

“It’s not like a regeneration,” said the Doctor. “I’m fine. I’m going. You’re staying here.”

“You’re both being stupid boys, and running out of time,” River reminded them. “Somebody go, or I will.”

The Doctor sighed. “Sherlock, come on,” he said. “River, stay here and do something very, very clever.”

He had every faith that she would, and walked out of the TARDIS just behind Sherlock, expecting to get shot as soon as they appeared. He’d say that Moriarty wouldn’t be that boring, but he’d been surprised ab out these things before.

The pool was still dark, lit only by the ambiance light from the TARDIS, which cast long and heavy shadows in every direction, and making everything seem almost ghost-like.

“Why don’t we do this like gentlemen?” asked the Doctor. “Send your men away and level the playing field.”

Moriarty grinned at them. “That’s not really fair,” he said. “Not if you get to keep your little puppy.”

Sherlock grinned right back at him, terribly smug, even for him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him on a lead.”

“Ohhh, all right,” said Moriarty, and with an almost delighted giggle, he waved his hand in the air. “You heard him, boys. Time to go.”

After a few seconds, the sound of heavy steel doors slamming shut echoed through the pool.

“So,” Moriarty said slowly. “The Doctor. I was wondering when we’d meet again. You do make yourself so easy to find, though. And your little companion fro m long ago. I didn’t even notice him at first. Funny. He seemed to almost appear out of nowhere. Torchwood’s good at creating identities and hiding people, but I have my own spies, too. There never was a Dr John Watson. Funny, that you’d let him play at being a doctor. If just for a little bit.”

The Doctor and Sherlock both rolled their eyes at him, and the Doctor wondered quickly if maybe Moriarty’s idea of research for ‘blending in’ was to have watched every Bond film ever made.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Sherlock said coldly.

“Oh, I think I can,” said Moriarty with an odd little wiggle of his head. “Who’s going to stop me? You?”

The Doctor shifted his jaw slightly, trusting that whatever Sherlock was trying to do wouldn’t get them killed. “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” he said.

“I’m unstoppable!” Moriarty boasted.

“You’re a sadist,” Sherlock spat. “It’s one thing not to show remor se or empathy toward anyone, but to take delight in hurting people... You can’t be allowed to do that.”

He stood stiffly, staring Moriarty down with an intensity that could have set the man on fire if Sherlock had had any more willpower. Sherlock knew exactly what he was, and how to channel that flaw into something useful. When the Doctor had found him, cold and starving on the streets, he was just one step away from becoming something terrible. Something that very easily would have hurt people for his own gain. But objectively seeing the damage caused by monsters who did more than just hurt – monsters that hurt because they could – and the Doctor insisting that he was meant to be better than that made Sherlock realise that he was better than that. Not caring at all meant that he didn’t feel compelled to behave one way or the other toward people. Without that compulsion to do harm meant that he didn’t have to control any urges, a nd that made him so much better than Moriarty.

Sherlock stood still for a long moment, processing everything; letting every piece of observable and learned information settle. Something was filed away, somewhere, just out of reach and very important. A word was said, and it was important because it had everything to do with this situation.

“You’re Krian,” he said, still trying to think. That was important, but the reason it was important must have been deleted, because he couldn’t seem to access it. “Oh! I know this!”

He ruffled his own hair, trying to rattle loose the required information from wherever it had been stored, out of the way from everything else.

“Kria,” he said. “It’s a sensitivity. Completely shuts down the central nervous system. Think!”

The Doctor kept his eyes focused on Moriarty, not wanting to let the man out of his site. He clicked his tongue several times, knowing that it would ann oy Sherlock.

“I’m trying to think!” Sherlock snapped at him. “Stop making that sound! Oh.”

The smugness on Moriarty’s face began to melt, replaced with something between annoyance and fear. Sherlock ignored this, turning his attention back to the Doctor.

“What do you suppose would happen if a sonic device operating at its highest frequency were amplified through an entire mobile phone network?” Sherlock asked casually.

The Doctor shrugged, managing somehow to seem even more casual. “I’m not sure. Seems like an interesting experiment to me.”

Sherlock pulled his mobile and the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver from his jacket, punched a few buttons, and held the sonic up to the phone’s receiver. The entire building shook. The entire street shook. The whole of London shook as every mobile device on the exchange erupted at once with a wailing feedback. Before Sherlock’s eardrums ruptured, the Doctor clapped his hands over Sherlo ck’s ears, gritting his teeth over the pain.

It hurt both of them, but not nearly as badly as it hurt Moriarty. He dropped to the ground, wailing inhumanly as the sound attacked his body. He shook and convulsed, and fought against every tensing of his muscles as he reached for a device in his jacket.

The Doctor opened his eyes just in time to see what the device was.

“No!” he shouted.

He left Sherlock, diving for Moriarty before he could activate the vortex manipulator. The aural assault too much for Sherlock to handle, he dropped the phone and the sonic screwdriver and fell to his knees just as Moriarty vanished into an artificially created event horizon.

“No!” shouted the Doctor again. He bit the back of his hand as he kicked at the spot where Moriarty had lie. “No!”

Sherlock looked up at him, pale and trembling. “What was that?” he asked cautiously, trying not to exert too much energy in talking.

“He got away!� �� the Doctor spat, almost red with rage.

“He didn’t go very far.” River stepped out of the TARDIS wearing her usual slightly arrogant smirk.

“Please tell me,” said the Doctor.

“The problem with vortex manipulators,” said River calmly, “is that they have to borrow signal. Open signals are easily hacked.”

The Doctor grinned widely. “Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s still in London,” River said. “I was able to quantum lock him, but before I lost him before I could set a date. He’s gone backwards, but I’m not sure how far. I didn’t see when he was going.”

Sherlock looked up at the two of them, having only a vague idea of what they were talking about. But he had a feeling that a vague idea is all he needed. Still panting lightly, he got back to his feet and started straightening his jacket as the metal door slammed shut again. The three of them all jerked their attention toward the door, expecting to see more little red dots lighting up around them.

They did not see little red dots, though. Instead, they were greeted to the Minister of Special Defence walking in like he owned the place.

“I do wish you’d warn us before you pull those little stunts, Doctor,” Mycroft said as he approached the group.

“You got here fast,” said the Doctor.

“Earthquake in London. Only one person who could have caused that.” Mycroft looked around the pool, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

“He’s still in London,” the Doctor said, answering a question that didn’t need to be asked. “We’re just working out when he is.”

Mycroft smiled a pleased little smile. “And I trust that when you locate him, you’ll be taking this one off our hands as well.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I think I’ll be going,” Sherlock agreed.

“Good,” said Mycroft. “And do us all a favour. Don’t come back.”

He was looki ng at Sherlock when he said it, making it clear without saying a single word more than he needed that Sherlock Holmes would not survive his next appearance in the 21st century.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock shot back coolly.

“Good. Doctor.” Mycroft nodded at him. “I trust you can see your own way out.”

He turned to leave as the Doctor ushered Sherlock and River back into the TARDIS. The Doctor moved slowly around the centre console, stroking bits with his hands and fingers, taking time to soak in every last detail. Even if John Watson couldn’t remember what it was like to be the Doctor, the Doctor could remember everything about John Watson, including just how long it had been since he’d been in this one safe and familiar place in the Universe.

“I think I’d like to go home, now,” Sherlock declared, unapologetically breaking the Doctor from his trance.

The Doctor looked up at him and nodded lightly. “Right. I suppose you’ll be wanting to pick up a few things, then. You’ve probably gotten rather attached to some of it.”

“No,” Sherlock said simply. “Torchwood will take care of all that. I just want to go home.”

“Oh. You mean...”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“Right.”

 

The TARDIS landed in a small alley, wet from a recent rain.

“You haven’t missed anything,” the Doctor assured. “Same night we met. It’ll be like you never left.”

Sherlock sighed lightly. “Not that there’s anyone to notice,” he said.

Still, being back in London – the London he was born in – felt right somehow. This was where he was supposed to be, and the one place he came closest to feeling like he fit.

“Get yourself a hobby and get off the streets,” the Doctor said softly. “I mean it.”

“I plan on it,” said Sherlock distantly.

He turned suddenly, giving the Doctor a lopsided grin and after a quick no d, he was gone. As he walked to the main road, he heard the TARDIS door shut. He didn’t look back as it took off, instead only wrapping his jacket tightly around him. He’d forgotten that it was the middle of winter when he’d been caught trying to pick the Doctor’s pockets, which meant that it was still the middle of winter now.

Only seconds after that TARDIS took off, Sherlock heard it landing behind him again. He turned sharply to see the Doctor walking back out, holding something large and flimsy in his arms.

“I know you said you’d let Torchwood take care of it,” the Doctor said, handing him the large coat and scarf. “But I think you might need this more than they do.”

Realising what it was, Sherlock grinned widely as he slid into the tailored coat. “Yeah, it is a bit brisk out, isn’t it?”

Accepting that this was about as close to gratitude as was possible to get from Sherlock, the Doctor smiled and nodded.

“Right,” he said.

Like Sherlock, he avoided saying anything resembling a goodbye, and turned to retreat back into the TARDIS. This time, Sherlock did watch it take off as he wrapped the scarf snugly around his neck. As the strange and wonderful blue box disappeared, Sherlock sunk his hands into the coat’s familiar pockets, and was surprised when his fingers touched unfamiliar objects.

He pulled them out, taking a moment to look over each of them; psychic paper, and a sonic screwdriver. Neither were the Doctor’s. Sherlock recognised this at once. They were his, as they had always meant to be from the start. There was also about £20 in assorted time-appropriate coins in the bottom of one of his pockets – no doubt a step taken to make sure he did indeed get off and stay off the streets.

Sliding both objects back into his pocket, Sherlock curiously pulled out his mobile phone, and was delighted to find that somehow, miraculously, he still had Vodafone coverage. Of course, after a few seconds of thought, this was not miraculous at all. Torchwood had provided the phone to him, and it was no doubt designed to work well outside of Vodafone’s usual range.

He pulled up the map, and while it seemed rather empty without having chip shops and tube stations to highlight, it did tell him exactly where he was. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Sherlock all but sprinted down the wet road, splashing through deep puddles in the uneven ground.

When he got to the house, he was amazed to find that it was still there. Or rather, that it was there already. Taking a quick moment to straighten himself out in an effort to not look like he had just run all the way from Glentworth, Sherlock knocked on the door. When the door opened and an older woman peered out cautiously, Sherlock smiled warmly – well rehearsed and familiar.

“Hello,” he said easily. “Is your upstairs flat available?”

 

It took less than two days for him to get bored again. On the first day, he rather carelessly spent a sizable amount of the money the Doctor had left him on a violin, which he had been forced to stop playing after four hours when his new landlady threatened to evict him when he didn’t stop.

On the second night, he got curious. He turned his phone on (which he had been keeping off to conserve its power for as long as possible) and closed his eyes, trying to recall mentally the phone number that had been slipped to him only a few days earlier.

Confident that he had remembered it correctly, he entered it into his phone and sent a simple text to the number. The text went through, which Sherlock had fully expected.

What surprised him was that the owner of the number responded. Reading the text, a wide grin spread across Sherlock’s face. Of course he’d been right.

Maybe he wouldn’t be so bored, after all.


End file.
